i couldn't have it all
by Hostile Hobnob
Summary: Skimmons, canonverse AU. TW: blood, shooting, suicide, death. Betrayal comes from where least expected. The best thing to do for yourself is to stop feeling anymore. [[We were ambushed, she'll say. We were caught from behind, she'll say. I tried to save her, she'll say. I was too late, she'll say. But it's all a lie, is what she'll not say.]]


**AN: So sorry for starting yet another fic when I have a bunch that need to be finished, but my muse told me I just had to write this one. It's a little late, but I took inspiration from Skimmons Week Day One: Missions. I hope you like it!**

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><p>Simmons and Skye were running through the giant catacomb-like basement of yet <em>another <em>whackjob billionaire that did some shitty stuff, and now S.H.I.E.L.D. had to clean it up. But first, the team actually needed to catch the guy first. He was surprisingly fit, for a man in his forties, and even Ward was having a tough time keeping up with him. Coulson made an executive decision, and had them to split up into teams, to cover more ground. Skye was internally cheering when Coulson put her with her secret girlfriend, Jemma, together. But evidently even being with your girlfriend doesn't make a literal manhunt more enjoyable.

As they ran along the dim hallway, Skye whispered to Simmons,

"This guy's being a total pain in the ass. Who knew billionaires could stay this fit?" Simmons shrugged, saying nothing. That's odd, Skye thought, Simmons usually has a gazillion and one theories on this kind of thing. Skye decides to prompt her again.

"It just doesn't add up, you know? He's über fit, yet his house contains nothing that 's even remotely close to excercize equipment. Not even a pool! And someone that cut _has _to lift, or whatever it's called. It doesn't make any sense. This whole case doesn't make any sense..." Simmons stops abruptly, making Skye nearly crash into her. Simmons turns around, a pale fingertip bisecting her lip. She motions for Skye to back up.

Skye's heartrate seems to double. The psycho could be just around the corner. _Please let Simmons be okay, _Skye prayed. It would kill her to lose Simmons. She's her rock, her best friend, her girlfriend. Suddenly, Skye wished she had gun, or even an icer to be able to protect Simmons better.

Out of nowhere, Simmons swivels around and trains her gun on Skye. Her very real gun, which contains very real bullets that could do very real killing. Skye notices her form is impeccable, on the same, if not higher, level as Ward. When did Simmons learn how to do that?

"Simmons?" Skye hisses, "What the hell are you doing?" Simmons stares at her, her expression stoic.

"I'm so sorry Skye." Skye can see a faint trace of emotion in her girlfriend's eyes,though she can't make out what it is.

"What do you mean, 'so sorry'? What is going on?" Skye is shouting now. To hell with the billionaire, Skye wants answers.

Simmons's expression falters, she's almost crying now.

"You're my mission, Skye. I have to kill you."

Skye's world stops. Her entire fucking world stops. Was this all a lie? Ever since she got on the Bus? Did Fitz know? Are the other's Hydra? Did she ever mean anything to Simmons, or was she just some elaborate scheme to get her to trust Simmons?

Skye doesn't say any of this. All she croaks out is, "When?"

Simmons keeps her gun fixed on Skye. "All my life. My parents are Hydra. They sent me to the Academy to begin SHIELD infiltration when I was seventeen. Fitz doesn't know."

Skye stumbles over to the wall, as if this earth-shattering betrayal has literally thrown off her equilibrium. "Tell me the truth. What was fake and what was real? Is Simmons even your real name? Who are you?"

Simmon's gun dips for a millisecond, then returns back to it's position, pointed at Skye's head.

"My name is Jemma Simmons. My parents were Genevieve and Ferguson Simmons, heads of Sciences and Operations at Hydra, respectively. I practically grew up in Hydra headquarters, I almost knew the place better than my own apartment complex. I was given Hydra scientists as my tutors and I recieved my two PhDs between the ages of twelve and seventeen. I also recieved tactical training, like one would if one were in Operations. Then, they sent me to the Academy to begin my infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D," Skye sinks to the ground. She was nothing to Simmons. **Nothing**.

"I befriended Fitz under instructions from the Clairvoyant." Simmons chuckles, as if reminiscing good times. What a sick bitch. "I have to admit, he was the easiest to manipulate. And at times, I did enjoy his company. Hydra isn't exactly a playground," Simmons continues. Skye's head is swimming with information. She can barely process it all.

"After graduatic from the Academy with highest of honours, I did a couple boring years of labwork. Rediscovered some tech I knew Hydra already had because why not?" Simmons laughs. It isn't cute or endearing anymore. In this echoey concrete tomb, it sounds downright evil. "Mine as well give you Ickle SHIELDies a freebie. You were going to be overrun anyways. But when the call for Team Coulson came out! Oh, I just knew I had to drag Little Fitzy out into the field and enact the plan Hydra's been waiting for for seven decades. Oh, how Mum will be so pleased!" Simmons laughs again, that eerie laugh of a fucking traitor. Skye whispers,

"Did I ever mean anything to you Simmons? Or was I just another piece of your mission." Simmons falters, her gun rushing down. Her face turns stormy, her eyes well up with tears. She ducks her head into her shoulder. When her face reappears, her eyes are red.

"Yes," Simmons says softly, "yes you did. And that's why I have to kill you. Because," Her voice cracks, "because I. Love. You. And I can't let any emotions get in my way." Simmons raises her gun again, the stoic expression returning to her graceful features. Skye stands up, and walks towards Simmons tentatively.

"I love you too, Jems. More than you could know. And that's why I have to do this," Skye grabs the gun, and presses it to her forehead, directly between her eyes. "I can't let you kill me, Simmons. I have to do it myself." Simmons stares at her, expression indecipherable.

"I won't let you. This is my mission, Skye. I _need _to do this."

What Simmons doesn't tell her is that it's a thousand times easier to be the one behind the gun. It's a thousand times easier to take somebody's life than it is to watch it happen. Simmons doesn't know exactly why or how, but she just knows it is.

At least, that's how it was with her father.

She remembers blood. Lots of it. She remembers how it feels in your hands, hot and sticky. She remembers how it looks pouring out of a wound. She remembers how it looks pouring out of her father's body. She tried everything she could. She shot the three guards at the door, and disarmed the one in the hallways in under five minutes. She hotwired the elevator in under ten. Her mission partner hacked the keypad in six seconds flat, a new record. What she couldn't do was get to her father in time. Six seconds is fast, but not fast enough to shoot the guard headed for the entrance in which the other Hydra team was entering from. Six seconds is fast, but not fast enough to prevent your fourteen year old partner from watching her father get torn to pieces by S.H.I.E.L.D. bullets.

"Why do you have to Simmons? Put down the gun, and walk away." Skye asks. "If you don't, I'll pull the trigger. I don't want to live in a world without my Jems by my side, on my side."

"No, Skye, don't." Simmons begs, "Please. You know I can't do that. Damnit, Skye, you're my **mission**. I have to." Skye says nothing, but looks at Simmons, her _Jemma _with the most love she can muster.

She remembers all the good days, the ones where they'd hole up in Skye's pod and watch Netflix. Or the ones where they'd sit in the van and listen to music on their seperate iPods. Classical for Simmons, 70s punk for Skye. Or even the sad days. The days Skye would bury her face into Jemma's woolen sweater and silky blazer and wish for everything to be better, and then Jemma would make it better, because Jemma makes everything better. Skye remembers the moments where she'd pull Jemma in for a kiss by her tie, or when they'd meet eyes during the debrief and Skye would just marvel at Jemma's beauty.

Skye remembers all of this, and focuses all that energy into one gaze.

"If you love me, Jemma, drop the gun."

Simmons is crying. Skye is crying. Their sobs echo through the hall in melancholy cacophony.

"I'm so sorry, Skye."

"Don't tell me you're sorry, drop the goddamn weapon, Jemma!"

Simmons stares into Skye's eyes with longing, and sorrow, and heartbreak and desire.

"Hail Hydra."

The gunshot echoes through the basement like a shout in a canyon. Simmons catches Skye'ss falling body, and lays it softly on the ground. She kisses her lips softly, for the last time. As their mouths seperate, Simmons can already feel the heat leaving her... Girlfriend's body. Can already see the color draining from her face. Simmons brushes the girl's eyelids closed and runs to find Coulson. She is already thinking of stories.

We were ambushes, she'll say.

We were caught from behind, she'll say.

I tried to save her, she'll say.

I was too late, she'll say.

But she wasn't too late, she knows. Skye's dead, and it's all her fault. Simmons doesn't care about anyone else on the team, but Skye. Her only happiness in this cover is dead. Fuck that, her only happiness _period _is dead. And she pulled the goddamn trigger.

Simmons doesn't know if she can live with herself. Simmons doesn't know if she **_wants_** to live at all.

Simmons stops running. She turns around, following the bloody footprints her boots made not five minutes ago.

Simmons stops at Skye's body.

Simmons lies down beside it.

Simmons holds her gun to her head.

Simmons whispers, "Hail Skye."

Then the world goes white.

At first, she is peaceful, finally free of her burdens.

Secondly, she worries, poor Fitz had quite the crush on her. He'll get over it.

Thirdly, she regrets. She regrets she can't make everything right.

Finally, she feels nothing.


End file.
